


But The Monsters Turned Out To Be Just Trees

by auroreanrave



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Illegal Activities, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Off-screen action, Possessive Behavior, Recovery, Self Care, Survival, Trauma, canonical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor turns up on Oliver's doorstep, and the whole world goes to hell.</p><p>Or, rather, the world has gone to hell, and Oliver's been too blissfully unawares, or as blissful as his life ever is, to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But The Monsters Turned Out To Be Just Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Taylor Swift song, 'Out of the Woods', which deals with a tenuous relationship.

Connor turns up on Oliver's doorstep, and the whole world goes to shit.

Or, rather, the world has gone to shit, and Oliver's been too blissfully unawares, or as blissful as his life ever is, to notice.

When Oliver brings Connor inside, Connor is shaking and crying and keeps gripping onto Oliver's wrist, so tight that Oliver will have bruises for two weeks after. He slumps onto Oliver's couch.

"Please, please, please, we're going to go to jail, I just, I just, I need you, okay, please, please..." Connor is babbling, and he's let go of Oliver's wrist; instead he's holding his knees, and Oliver can sees holes and dirt on the threadbare patches on the knees of his jeans.

Connor looks a complete mess, a million miles from the man who had seduced Oliver in that bar, with a perfect suit and just-so hair and a winning grin. He looks terrified.

"It's alright, it's alright. Tell me what's wrong."

Connor shakes his head, his damp hair flopping over his eye. "No, I can't. I can't have you getting arrested to. To knowledge of a crime being committed, a witness, an accomplice, something, but I can't have you involved."

"Connor, I can't fully help you unless you tell me. Please. Don't lie to me, or shut me out on this, because if you do," Oliver says, kneeling down so his knees brush Connor's, and his hand rests adjacent to one of Connor's, "if you do, I can't have anything to do with you anymore."

Connor's head snaps up, and Oliver knows that it's a dirty trick, a mean one, that hitting Connor where and when he's vulnerable is harsh; but he has to do it, because Oliver is nothing if not smart and compassionate and kind, and if Connor's situation is as bad as it feels in the pit of his stomach, he needs to make the ends justify the means.

Slowly, Connor nods, and his hand slides over Oliver's, warm and heavy. Oliver thinks of escaping and running, of leaving behind this broken boy and his mess of a life, of running home.

Oliver sits down on the couch beside him, and waits until the sun rises over the horizon on that cold winter morning, and until Connor finishes telling him the whole sorry story.

\--

Oliver leaves Connor in the shower, the door open so that he can watch Connor through the frosted glass, and make sure that he's alright. He calls into work sick with a gastrointestinal flu, and then goes to town with Connor's clothes and a pair of heavy-duty scissors Connor uses whenever he wants to make pork _adobo_ or ribs.

He cuts up the jeans, searching the patches of fabric for any blood or dirt, and making a small pile of them. Oliver does the same to the hoodie and the shirt, but leaves the underwear because according to one of Connor's classmates who rings Connor's phone, the chance of anything in his boxers is next to none. Oliver still puts them with his own laundry, to wash in the laundromat downstairs, and soaks the patches in some bleach in the sink just to be safe.

The classmates thing is new. The girl on the phone - Laurel, she says her name is - asks him about Connor, and soon Oliver is up to speed with Connor's friends. He promises to make Connor return her call, and then burns the little scraps of fabric in his sink, with his window open for the smoke, and washing away the ashes.

Oliver brings Connor out of the shower as the ashes are soaking in the sink, and wraps him up in his biggest towel. Connor nuzzles into Oliver's neck as he dries him off, but Oliver just finishes drying him, before loaning him a pair of underwear, and wrapping him up in bed.

Connor falls asleep within seconds.

Oliver spends the next few hours hacking into Middleton University campus logs, downloading copies of hours of footage, and leaving no trace. He pours over them, and does some of his finest, most illegal work, that no one will ever know about. He drinks his way through four cups of coffee, and while the feeds are being replaced by Oliver's modified versions, he goes downstairs and does his laundry, and wants to scrub his brain out until it's all clean and white and reset.

When he makes it back to his apartment, Connor is sat up in bed, that same look of waxy terror on his face, clutching Oliver's comforter, and his phone is ringing.

"I thought you had gone." Connor says, numbly. Oliver nods, and answers the phone. Laurel is ringing for Connor, and Oliver hands over the phone. He stands in the hallway while Connor speaks and listens.

After two minutes, Connor hangs up, and scrubs at his face with his hand. "I need to go. We... we're meeting up to discuss, well, everything, and I, I need some clothes."

Oliver hands him a tee shirt, and some old jeans, and a hoodie he's never liked much, and Connor dresses silently. He shoves on his own filthy shoes (because they're not the same size, and Connor promises to throw them away once he gets home), and then turns to Oliver. Wide-eyed and gnawing at his bottom lip like a child.

"Can you... I mean. Can you come with me? Just so... just so I know you're there if something happens. In case I have another attack." Oliver had recognised the signs; his older sister, Aimee, had gone through a spate of anxiety attacks when she was in her senior year of high school, and he had learned what helped.

"If you want." Oliver nods, and Connor looks as if he wants to kiss Oliver. But Oliver can't forget the feeling of betrayal, as illogical as it could have been, of Connor's lazy fucking around. It's petty and jealous, but right now, it's something Oliver can cling to as he slips down the rabbit hole.

So he doesn't kiss Connor, and together they leave the apartment, as soon as Oliver's made sure everything is in place with the cameras, and his hard drive is scrubbed shiny and clean.

\--

The coffee shop that Wes chooses is deliberately ill-placed. It situates between a much better franchise coffee shop, and a hardware store that has Oliver almost staring indecently at the vintage pieces inside. The afternoon rush, if there has been one, is long since over, and the group and Oliver are the only people there.

Oliver sits a few tables away deliberately; close enough that Connor can feel safe, and yet far away enough that their business is their business. Oliver brings his iPod and the little Chromebook he uses for working on short stories, and studiously ignores the little cluster of five in the corner of his eye, textbooks spread so as to look like regular students, rather than murder co-conspirators.

He's midway through reading an article on The Huffington Post, with the sounds of Robots With Rayguns strumming pleasantly through his ears, when a polystyrene cup plops itself down on the corner of his table, caramel-scented steam wafting off it.

Oliver looks up and finds the coffee bearer taking a seat opposite him. She's a quietly beautiful Latina girl, dark hair loose around her shoulders, and dark circles so deeply set under her eyes that Oliver feels a sharp twist of concern.

"For you. I, uh, figured it was the least we could do. Well, I could do." He recognises the voice, and smiles gratefully at Laurel. Her returned smile reflects in the too-early-to-be-seasonal Christmas lights strung across the cafe.

"It was nothing. Well, okay, not nothing, but..."

Laurel nods, and sips at her own fresh cup, the smell of peppermint lying in the air, her hands curving around the cup. Behind her, Connor is talking to the black girl and the other two boys, but keeps looking over at Oliver. Michaela, Wes, and Asher, he remembers. All of them - save for Asher - look exhausted and overclocked.

"It was still good of you. You were the only person he could turn to." Oliver doesn't respond. Hell, he can't respond. He doesn't know what to make of that. Right now, he doesn't have the luxury of attempting to make something of that. He's an accessory to the cover up of a murder.

"You don't have to worry. About the cameras, I mean." Oliver says instead, barely meets Laurel's look over the rims of his glasses. "I took care of it this morning."

"What do you mean you took care of it?" Michaela has joined them, and she is a beautiful girl, Oliver knows this, but she looks awful. Her hair is a mess, and her eyes are sunken, and even though she's wearing an expensive coat over a beautiful dress, she looks like she's walked through the fires of Hell.

"I hacked into Middleton's CCTV feeds, and copied some old tapes into the ones from last night. I reconstituted the night to deal with what Connor told me you guys did. Technologically, you guys should be fine." Connor looks over Michaela's shoulder as she takes the seat next to Laurel. The only other person in the cafe is the bored girl at the counter, who has been playing Candy Crush Saga for the past hour and shows no signs of being remotely interested.

"Okay. Okay." Michaela rests her forehead on her hands, her chipped nails an incongruous shocking pink. Connor makes his way over, flanked by Wes and Asher, all carrying their coffee and dragging stools and chairs around the table. Wes and Asher and Michaela begin discussing what the hell to do next, and Connor sits next to Oliver, their knees touching.

Oliver saves his work on his computer, and puts his iPod back in his pocket, because it's clear that he just became a member of Team We Have Committed A Major Felony, whether he really wanted to be or not.

\--

A few days later, Oliver opens the door to find Wes and Laurel there. Both of them look better than the last time he saw them. Laurel has washed her hair and slept, and Wes actually smiles when he sees Oliver in the doorway.

"Hi. You guys alright?"

"Yeah, we just..." Laurel looks down at her feet. Oliver notices that she has a bag in her hand from the 7-11 down the street, and Wes has one too.

"I can't really hang out at my place, at the moment. I mean I can, I can sleep and do whatever, but I just... can't." Wes says, free hand gesturing. He looks so young, almost sleepy.

"He means... is it alright if we hang out here? Just for a little bit. I need to get out of my own head."

"I have Netflix." Oliver means to protest, but he can't. His life has gone from a two to a twelve in terms of overall insanity, and inviting two of his not-quite-ex-boyfriend's co-conspirators-slash-tenuous-friends in to hang out and watch stuff, is far from being the weirdest thing in his life.

Wes and Laurel have both brought alcohol (Wes doesn't like beer, apparently, and opts for some tequila; Laurel prefers wine), and soon they settle on Oliver's couch, and later they're seven episodes into the fourth season of Arrested Development, and Wes is bemoaning the fact that he isn't Lucille, when there's a knock at the door.

Connor's at the door, an oversized messenger bag over his shoulder. He's wearing one of his nicer suits, and his hair has some gel in it; Oliver can see creases in the suit, and Connor still looks tired behind his smirk.

"Hey."

"Hey. You okay?"

Connor nods. "I'm alright. Take it you heard the news from the Scooby Gang."

He hadn't, the first time anyway. Oliver had seen the news, rolling around local news and even a state-wide affiliate. The body of Samuel Keating, professor at Middleton University. There's plenty of news, and even a paparazzi-style photo of his wife, a powerful black woman striding across towards the local police station.

Oliver had stared at the screen, long after the reports have finished and moved onto other matters, and then gone to work.

"Any suspects?" Oliver asks, leaning his hip against the doorway. From behind him, he can hear the sounds of the Bluths.

Connor shrugs in return. "They're checking everyone out. Annalise, Bonnie, Frank. No one suspects any of us. Particularly given that we were all at the bonfire that night, thanks to Instagram, and Rebecca's skipped town." He nods, pointedly, at Oliver.

"Good. That's - I mean, that's good."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure. Your friends are already here." Connor pauses at this, then looks over Oliver's shoulder. Oliver turns, to find Laurel sipping her wine and doing her best look of unapologetic judgement, and Wes pouting and trying to practice Gob's magical flourishes.

"Oh. Okay." Connor pauses, squaring himself up a little, and then he walks through the doorway. Oliver watches him go.

"Have we done Blue Man Bluth yet? I think I know a guy who has face paint." Connor says, in that half-ironic tone that is the closest thing to friendly that he has, at least normally. Wes grins and starts babbling about the show, and Connor sits down to the side of him. Laurel begins texting Michaela to see if she wants in, and Oliver watches Connor, as he's become accustomed to doing.

\--

Connor unofficially moves in after a week or so. A few months ago, it would have been all Oliver would have wanted; now it's darker than that. Oliver isn't sure Connor should be clinging to him emotionally like this, but there's nothing to be done. No psychologist worth either their salt or their degree, would keep 'I may have participated in the murder and subsequent cover up of our law professor's philandering husband' away from the police.

Annalise Keating appears twice more on television; once in a short piece, appealing for help to find her husband's killer; and once more when a woman named Bonnie is arrested for it.

Connor spends the night on Oliver's couch, in his sweatpants and vest, and goes through all of his notes on torts with green highlighter. He falls asleep there, presumably; when Oliver wakes up in the morning, Connor is slumped on the couch, one hand still grasping the pen in loose, groggy fingers.

"How are you all dealing?" Oliver asks Laurel one day. They've met at a Starbucks near campus, thick scarves tucked into the zips of coats, and sipping hot drinks.

"Michaela's still freaking out about it, but she's okay. Wes spends too much time with Rebecca, trying to get her to open up to him. He's too cheery. Asher still has no clue." Laurel sips at her hot chocolate, then adds, "I think you have a better idea than me about how Connor is."

Oliver nods. "He's focusing on school. But he - he stays up too late. I don't think he's taking care of himself."

"I'm not surprised. I heard from Asher that he's never at home. His apartment's lease was up about a week ago." Laurel wipes at a line of cocoa-flecked foam on her saucer. "I thought he'd moved in with you."

Oliver pauses. It's been slow in coming, and a surprise. He's not surprised, actually; Connor eats takeout and sleeps on Oliver's couch, and despite insistences that he's fine, Oliver knows that he's not. He's always tired, and drained, running on coffee and bad food.

"I guess he has." At Laurel's raised eyebrow, he continues: "But we're not sleeping together. We haven't for months. I'm kind of surprised, really. Doesn't Connor have any family?"

Laurel shrugs. "No clue. He never mentioned any. Only his time in boarding school, which I guess means a family with more money than sense. Plus his suits are always really good, so I think he must have some contact with them. No law student dresses that well unless they have serious money behind them. I get my shirts from designer discounts sales."

Oliver laughs at that, and Laurel follows. They need to laugh, more than ever.

Later that night, Oliver comes home to find Connor outside his apartment, a bag of Chinese takeout in his hand. He smiles when he sees Oliver.

"Hey, so I figured once I've got this Property essay out of the way with, we can blitz our way through American Horror Story - "

Oliver opens the door, and turns to Connor. "We need to talk."

Connor's face drops, and Oliver's heart breaks a little, because Connor might have a shitty family life, might have just recovered from escaping criminal prosecution, and might have just begun to recover from a terrible period of his life, but this looks like it physically hurts.

"You're... you're kind of a mess."

Connor blinks, then smirks. "Tell a guy that he's got bad hair too, while you're at it."

"I'm serious. You're not eating well, your sleeping hours are shot, and I seriously think you're at danger of suffering burnout."

"You read this in a book too?" Connor is defensive, pushing past Oliver to put the bag of steaming takeout on the kitchen counter.

"I'm worried about you." Oliver says, and his hand curves around the bony knot of Connor's wrist. He's gotten so thin lately, far from the toned form he knows; Connor looks skinny to a fault.

"You don't have to worry about me." Connor says, all bravado, but when Oliver moves to lift his hand away, Connor grabs it right back. They stand there for a long moment, holding onto each other's wrists.

"I want you to let me look after you." Oliver says. He does. He can't stand to see Connor self-destruct.

"Like a sugar daddy? Always wanted one of those." The smirk is back.

"You stay here. You go to school, you go run or screw guys or whatever you want. But you're always back here to get sleep. You eat well. You cut down on your caffeine."

"Like I'm a damn kid. Or a vegan." Connor grumbles, sourly taking a piece of lemon chicken from one of the boxes on the counter. He munches it, pointedly, at Oliver. Then he swallows, and sighs. "Fine. Okay. For you."

Oliver nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Alright. Starting Monday. Can't let his go to waste, after all." He grabs his favourite pork chow mein and Connor grins back. They take their food, and settle down to Netflix, and Oliver lets out a sigh of relief. He prays he's got this under control.

\--

Slowly, Oliver begins to teach Connor the meaning of true self-care.

It takes time.

Connor spends at least a month on Oliver's couch, enough time that when Oliver's alarm goes off in the morning, Connor is leaving Post-Its in neon hues on the fridge, telling him that he's gone out for a run, and then returns ten minutes later, sweating and grinning.

Oliver purposefully doesn't have sex with Connor. It still feels like taking advantage, even though Connor is getting better with every passing day, and looks at Oliver with the kind of dark lust that drove both of them into Oliver's bed plenty of times.

He makes sure Connor eats at least three good meals a day. Oliver makes sure that he spends enough time sleeping. Oliver doesn't keep a tab on him - if Connor wants to go out screwing twinks in clubs, that's his business - but he tries to make him get at least a solid seven hours.

Sometimes Laurel comes around, usually with Wes in tow. Michaela occasionally makes an appearance; she reminds Oliver of the popular girls in high school, razor-sharp barbs covered in silk. Then she'll smile, and Oliver realises that she's just a girl trying to be better than her past, and he likes her more.

Connor goes to all of his classes, Professor Keating taking a semester off. Slowly, Connor begins to smile more. Oliver even goes on a couple of dates - a friend of a friend, a local barista with great hair - but he doesn't feel anything. Connor's waiting for him when he gets home, snark and grins, and a warm feeling taking root in Oliver's stomach.

Thanksgiving comes around, and Connor goes home. He sends Oliver ridiculous Snapchats of his opulent familial home, and floods his Instagram feed with glossy shots of food and vistas. Wes and Laurel come around to Oliver's, with a turkey and potatoes, and they end up having a drunken celebration.

Connor appears back in Oliver's apartment in the early hours of Black Friday, just as Wes is suiting up to go hit the sales. Connor looks tired, but grins when he sees Oliver, and wraps him up in a warm hug, as Laurel and Wes sneak out.

Oliver kisses Connor. He tastes like mints, and bad coffee, and a long hard night, and it is so good.

Connor pushes back against him, eager hands sliding onto evey inch of bare skin he can hold on to, and Connor makes this needy little sound in his throat, like relief and bone-deep pleasure. It sends a warm little rush to Oliver's toes, and Connor guides them backwards, so that they topple backwards onto the couch.

They spend twenty minutes making out on the couch, hands growing warmer and warmer, and their cocks hard and straining against their pants. Oliver pulls back a little. "I want us to go slow, okay."

Connor whimpers a little, hips stuttering forward, but relents. "Fine. You know how to give a guy a serious case of blue balls."

"Not a thing, actually." Oliver murmurs. Connor snorts with laughter, and soon they're watching Charlie Brown on TV, in their pajamas, fingers brushing each other.

\--

The first time they fall into bed together, again, it's two days before Christmas Eve, and Oliver makes Connor top.

"I want you to be in control." Oliver says, in between gasps and furtive scrabbling for condoms, for lube, for the bedsheets, for anything to cling to. "I trust you."

Connor's eyes go wide, and he kisses Oliver. He slides into Oliver, with the kind of muscle memory that makes Oliver's breath hitch in his chest.

Connor doesn't last long. He comes with a broken, choked cry, his dick pistoning into Oliver's ass, until Oliver comes a moment later, his hand tight around his cock.

Afterwards, Connor crowds into him, lips at his brow, at his cheek, his mouth. His hands grip onto Oliver, possessive and heavy. "I'm sorry. For before."

"It's okay. I forgave you a long time ago."

"Don't go." Connor is like a child. Oliver could still run if he wanted.

Oliver curls around him, and makes a promise. He's always been good with his word.

\--

Five years fly by in touches, and cases and classes,; in job offers after graduation, and the five of them starting a law firm together; in Michaela and Aiden's wedding, and Wes and Laurel's engagement; in kisses and smiles and in Connor healing himself.

Connor kisses Oliver under the fireworks at New Year's, a little silver threading through his hair, and proposes, big grin wide to bursting.

Oliver doesn't answer; instead he kisses him until the stars fall from the sky.


End file.
